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It's a beautiful day here in Dublin, which is all the more precious because it's so rare. There's nothing more wonderful than a good summer's day in Ireland, in my opinion. The sky is a deep blue, there's a light breeze, you can hear the faint cry of gulls. It has none of the pressure of a summer's day anywhere else. It's warm, but still refreshing. No one expects you to be out in a bikini and sarong. People make a point of mentioning it wherever you go, at the post office, in the supermarket
[ - ''Ah it's a beautiful day today, isn't it?''
- ''It is, yes.''
- ''Wonderful weather!''
- ''It's pretty warm out.''
- ''Ah sure, it's gorgeous!''
- ''Yep'']
You can't deny people in Ireland are friendly. In fact, it often makes me feel guilty, having been conditioned to display a tight-lipped sort of secrecy in my dealings with strangers. The other day, whilst making a boeuf bourguignon (recipe to follow), a guy came to get me to sign for a letter, and said ''Are ye makin' somethin' nice, are ye?''. I just sort of looked at him, startled. ''I'm sorry?'' he grinned, ''I said, are ye makin' somethin' nice fer yer tea?'' I signed his little digital thing, and said coolly: ''Yes. Stew.'' And shut the door. He probably thought 'frigid British cow' but it wasn't actually me being rude - more just taken aback by a question that to him was simply being friendly. It happens a lot - someone in the shop comments on something you're buying, or the bus driver interacts with you, like the other day when I got on and he shouted at me: ''Stop playin' with yer feckin' phone, you can count your money on the bus, now GET ON!'' It's sort of nice. It feels natural and more human. Not like in the UK where everyone keeps a physical and emotional distance from everyone they come across. Perhaps I should have invited the letter guy in to sample the stew (not innuendo).

So anyway, in an attempt to find out more about my housing situation in September, yesterday I emailed Yannick, and got this reply:

"Je suis absent du 13 juillet au 16 août.

Pour les BGF-BGE vous pouvez contacter [Madame X]

Bonnes vacances."

So I emailed Madame X, and got this reply:

"Bonjour,
je suis en congés du 29 juillet au 5 septembre inclus.
Pour tout urgence concernant les BGF et BGE vous pouvez contacter [yannick] à l'adresse suivante : [email address]

très cordialement"

Then, the scholarship woman forwarded me a document about what to do to get set up financially, and she included a letter from the CROUS, which, at the bottom, includes the following line:

"Compte tenu du parc de logements disponibles, il ne peut y avoir d'engagement formel du CNOUS et du CROUS pour assurer un logement en résidence universitaire a l'étudiant".

Which, despite the non-sensical wordiness of it, basically means 'we can't guarantee you 100% that we will have somewhere for you to live'. For fuck's sake France, honestly. What is the *deal* with this naffing off on holiday for two months of the year? I'm not too worried though, will just see what happens when they're all back from their 7 week holiday in the South of France. When they sashay into their office, mocha frappucinos in hand, crisp white shirts buttoned loosely over their trim, freshly-tanned bodies, blowing the dust off their monitors as they turn the computers on, honking away at each others' jokes and accounts of encounters with the peasants down in Draguignan, and then BAM. That's right, it's the annoying English girl who has flooded your inbox with irritating emails. NOW DEAL WITH IT.

The thing is though, I can't get through to them so I'm guessing it's just not going to be possible for my Dad to take me down there, which is a bit sad really. I feel like I've let him down somehow, which is ridiculous because there's nothing else I could do. He did suggest us going down earlier and me staying in a hotel for a few nights whilst waiting for the room, but....that sort of defeats the purpose, plus I think I'd feel lonely then. Anyway, we discussed him coming to visit in the last week of October, which is when I have a break. And Mum is going to a conference in Zurich, which turns out to be a 40 euro, 2 and a half hour train ride away - not too bad! I'd love for both of them to come and visit. It was great when Dad came to V/Paris to see me and Beefa, and then when Mum came to Chartres....although I remember one day in Chartres, where we had a fight, and I think out of all the days in my life, that's the day I regret the most. She was crying and upset, I can't remember why, but I remember being a total MEAN BITCH to her, and whenever I think back to it, I do that thing where you cringe and actually physically shake your head a bit in an effort to bury the memory. Bit melodramatic, eh?

Another thing I have to deal with today - the uni were asking me how I wanted to pay my fees, and they demanded a response by the 24th of August. The only options on the sheet I have to send back are:

• ''Go ahead and take 3000 out of my bank account - here are my details''
• ''Go ahead and take 3000 out of my bank account in installments of 800 - here are my details''

In fact I can do neither of those, as the scholarship pays for it. So I emailed scholarship woman asking what I should do (the uni being closed until the 24th of August, naturally) and she said to ask them to invoice her, or for me to pay it and for her to deposit 3000 in my account, upon receipt of payment. I don't want to do that second option, since I don't have 3000 lying around, plus even if she fed the mulah into my account, it would result in a budgeting catastrophe for me. So today I'm going to email her and ask her to write a brief letter that I can attach to the stuff to send back to the uni, saying that she will be paying the fees, and to invoice her. That should do the trick! I wish I didn't feel so awful about asking people to do things for me, it makes me feel dreadful, even though I know this is this woman's sole job. I feel like a beggar.

Good news on the shoe side of things - the boots have been shipped to good old Barnoldswick. Which means a phone call to my dearest grandmother is required, so I can casually mention that yet again I've been ordering shit to her house. Oh, other good thing - finalized deed poll came! I am now who I say I am :D

Other things to do include finding my brother a job, making an uncomfortable phone call to ensure that my ex understands he is my ex, getting the balls required to send the scholarship email. Infected eye still being a dickhead. Why won't it just LEAVE ME ALONE?

Sole searching

Eye infection alert! Get them all the time. Woke up at 5 in the morning, blinking, trying to shift the cruddy film that had developed across my right eye.  Feels a little burny, but nothing I can't handle. Eye infections tend to look particularly grotesque on blue eyes. Makes you look a bit mad and junkie-esque. Considering I can't put my lenses in and have lost my glasses (MUST get some....as soon as I get that holy grail of French society, the Carte Vitale), I'm essentially blind for the moment. Got told by Mum to go to the pharmacy, but I'm considering using old-fashioned techniques to try and rid myself  of the gunk. Compresses, salty eye washes (might want to google that, sounds like could possibly have opposite effect?), etc.

Because we moved to Ireland in my last year of secondary school, and because once I'd finished that I left the country, I don't have any friends here. Which means that my time at home, such as now, turns into the life of a housewife minus the being a wife part. I get up, grind some fresh coffee using my Dad's loud and ugly 80s coffee grinding thing (which he has kept for sentimental reasons, because he had it when he lived in East Germany, or something). I then glide around the house alternating between reading books, flicking through glossy magazines, napping on the couch, and making bacon sandwiches. Occasionally I might do a little light laundry, and half an hour before everyone comes home from work, I go on a massive clean-up operation, brushing off breadcrumbs from various counter tops, de-fatifying the frying pan, plumping up the couch cushions.

So I've got not much else to do other than cook for people (tonight - boeuf bourguignon) and organize some Strasbourg stuff. It's quite sad actually - my Dad didn't help me move to Sheffield for uni because I said I would do it myself. He didn't get to come to my graduation because I didn't go myself (might have been a bit weird had he turned up all by his lonesome). So he really wanted to fly to Paris, rent a car, pick me up in the one-horse town I now cannot wait to be rid of, and drive me down to Strasbourg. Except the CROUS are being anal about the whole thing and have told me my room will be available from the first of September. Grr. My Dad checked at work, and he has a meeting on that actual day. So my options are:

• Make the move alone (no big deal, but quite sad as it was something he wanted to do)
• Go down earlier and stay in a hotel for one or two nights so he can drive me down and then get back to Dublin on the 30th
• Hassle the CROUS to see if there can be any give on the date

I'm going to start by attempting option 3, and if that fails - I'll cross that shaky bridge when I get to it. Email has been sent to dear old 'Yannick', the guy in charge of us BGFs - I've received an email from him before, which was very cool, dismissive, and uninformative. I realized that his signature has a link to his email address: except the html is wrong, and links up to someone elses email. I thought about adding that as a P.S., except I realized I could use this as a secret weapon based on his reply to my dates enquiry. If he even so much as DARES to get shirty with me, WHAM! I will destroy your htmling confidence, Yannick. Hehehe. HeeeeeHEEEEEHEHE. BWAHAHEHEHEHEHE! [/end evil laughter]

Anyway! I'm on a mad desperate frenzied search for these boots:

Don't ask me why, they aren't particularly special, but I just *want* them, you know? That's one of the horrors of having your family living in Ireland: a whole world of Britishness is spread out in front of you, but without the access to the perks. They've got (practically only)  British shops here, so you can only use the British website, but inevitably there's always some sort of stupid fucking problem, because newsflash, Ireland isn't in the UK.
So I got an email saying (in a nice, jovial tone): "Thanks for your recent communication, Hannah. Your order has now been cancelled". Noooo. Called up pleasant Glasgow call centre. In this particular case, the Stupid Irish/British Problem was...they ship abroad from warehouses only, and they don't stock those particular boots in their warehouses. Why don't you just get your own shoe shops, Ireland? Same with telly: they have RTE, their Irish channel, but it's shit and no-one watches it. People watch BBC Northern Ireland instead, but their papers give normal BBC listings. So you think you're watching the Grumpy Guide to Food, and instead end up watching The Impressionists: let's learn more about them, and their boring works.

So once the nice woman at the call centre gave me the downlow on the warehouse Irish/British Problem, I cheated the system by ordering them to my gran's address in Barnoldswick. Felt pretty self-satisfied, until I logged on to my 'account' on the Office website, and it now has the same 2 pair of boots as 2 different orders, both with the status: 'PENDING', which over the last 3 days has been modified to 'pending', 'Pending' and 'PENDing'. Very descriptive, Office.
I suppose all I do now is sit back and wait for the fuckers to arrive. Maybe I'll get two pairs. Maybe I'll get one. Maybe I'll get none.

I vote the last option.

Identity Change

OK, not too sure what the deal is here, but I've been checking out a few random blogs using the "Next Blog" function, and have been coming across a disproportionately high amount of Jesus Creepers. Now, you want to be a Catholic - go ahead and be a Catholic. But blogger.com? What is going on? I refuse to believe this is pure coincidence.

Annnnnyhoo, today is a fairly big day for me, because I am finally making my identity formal. Having lived with the ghost of my bastarding biological roots permanently haunting my existence (note: administratively, not emotionally), today is the day the papers have been signed, and my name is now officially the name I want and have been using anyway for all these years. Which is important as:

• France has up until now refused to give me any respect whatsoever, due to this birth cert/passport mismatch debacle: goodbye social security, and with it, free healthcare. I also just know the university is going to want to know my blood group, my grandfather's shoe size, and countless other all-important details before they will let me enter their grounds, so I'm glad to be gathering all this documentation now
• It allows me some freedom psychologically, and allows me to make a permanent statement of the rejection of 50% of my blood 'family'. All I need to decide now is whether I should inform them of this change (and whether they'd care).

Changing your name is surprisingly easy. You order the deed poll documents, they come, you sign, you get a witness to sign, you send them off. I'm at the stage now where I'll be sending them off today/tomorrow, and then sitting back and waiting to get the actual official document, which I can then spend yet more money on getting translated. This Deed Poll Service has:

  "issued Deed Polls for fun names such as Jellyfish McSaveloy, Toasted T Cake, Nineteen Sixty-Eight, Hong Kong Phooey, Daddy Fantastic, One-One-Eight Taxi, Ting A Ling, Huggy Bear, Donald Duck, Jojo Magicspacemonkey and James Bond."

If you were looking for ideas to get you started.

So anyway, because I live abroad, my 'witness' needed to be a notary or solicitor. I emailed a couple, and started talking to this one woman who suggested we meet at a local cafe at 10.30pm today. Bit weird, but who am I to judge? Maybe she's an insomniac? Maybe she's the sort of person who starts work around 4, and finishes up at midnight. Maybe she's a psycho killer luring me into her psycho killing trap using a 'oh I'm a solicitor, let's meet in a dark alley way so I can sign your documents' facade. Or maybe, she's just a flake.
I got a call at 10.30am saying she was at the cafe, and where was I? Ummm, sitting in front of the telly eating Craves? She apologized, she'd meant to say 10.30am in her email. I ummmed and ahhhed, basically not wanting to say "Look, you're a working woman, and I...well, I'm actually still in my pyjamas, so can you sit there and make your coffee last another half hour please?". The best I could manage on the spot was a weak "Oh, I just need to put my contact lenses in...." but luckily she suggested coming over to my house, which is just next door (or as I disgustingly put it via email, 'a spit away').
So, she came over, gave me her life story, waxed lyrical re the holiday value of cottages in county Wexford, which was embarrassing, as just minutes before I'd been discussing Wexford, in the context of: "Who the hell would ever want to go there on holiday?" Apparently it's the 'Irish Riviera'. We talked about how she is the 'poor one in the relationship' with her partner, about her struggles career-wise during the recession, about house prices in the Churchtown area, and finally, almost as an after-thought, we signed the documents.
She needed to check my photo ID first, and she held the passport up to my face (thought people only did that in films?), and said "It's funny, you look different here". I completely froze. Personally, I always feel suspicious when I am in an environment in which people are looking for suspicious people. At airports, for example. I feel convinced they're going to put my bag through X-Ray, pull me over and say "Now, I'm just going to have a quick look in your bag if you don't mind", and pull out a million dollars worth of crack along with a selection of firearms. When I walk through the metal detector, I don't know what to do with my eyes - look frankly at the officer? Look away? I usually end up doing some weird 'oh, look how relaxed and unguilty I am' smile whilst simultaneously scanning the other side for signs of my bag.
It's the same with banks. I walk into a bank, I automatically feel like some shady pauper, even if I have money in my account. And even if I didn't - who cares? Not their problem. And yet, I'm always slightly on edge, as if the guy behind the desk could any minute now say "I've got some bad news Madam - your account is overdrawn by 10 grand, and my sources are indicating that you spent it all on lingerie and cigarettes. I'm afraid I'm going to have to close the account, and issue you with a court date if you do not pay back this money within 24 hours".

So anyway, after feeling suspicious and getting the documents signed, I stood up (fairly brusquely I might add), and essentially frogmarched her out of the house, calling after her as she wobbled her way down the drive, making futile promises of checking out holiday rentals in Wexford, before slamming the door and immediately striding out the back for a cigarette. It made me think how well I handled this situation, compared to when I was 18 and starting out in Germany. Jesus Christ, I was such a pushover back then. I would listen to life stories for hours on end, out of a fear of hurting the other person's feelings if I showed a little impatience/fed-upness. I listened to this little old lady's life story on a train in Germany once - it lasted an hour and a half, and I literally understood not a SINGLE WORD. She didn't seem to mind though, and took my occasional "Oh ja?", and "Oh ja!" and "Oh....ja."with grace and style.

Having a beautiful home on a trampy budget

[Isn't it interesting how my T9 dictionary will allow me to type 'ing': basically approving the customisation of the English language. You can '-ing' up anything you like. I love that about English].

My fantasy is to one day live in a place that is comfortable, cosy, and clean. A lavish fantasy, I know, but a girl's gotta dream. Having spent the past few years living in places ranging from rapey 'foyer' rooms, to dingy student flats, I think I'm ready for it. I don't want a kitchen table that wobbles. Or to sit cross-legged on an over-sized cushion because I can't afford a couch. I don't want to watch television on my computer, or have people over and resort to binge drinking on my bed because the minute living room is taken up by my Italian flatmates and their pasta orgies. I don't want to handwash my shirts, because the nearest laundry place is a half hour walk away. I don't want to use a tray as a coffee table. So many student rooms, so many little comforts. I want a big massive plaid throw on top of a big massive soft couch. Carpets my feet sink into. Heavy linen curtains. A huge Arabic coffee table made out of an old mosque door. A giant bed with a duvet the thickness of a bouncy castle, and pillows stuffed with the biggest and most luxurious feathers known to man. Crisp white sheets, and thousands of cushions strewn across the vast expanse of the bed. A massive armchair I would sink into as I sipped on my fine Italian espresso, produced by my hand-assembled swanky hotel-style coffee machine, whilst sitting in my opulent living room. Oak bookcases, crammed full of literary staples such as the latest Douglas Kennedy and Jodi Picoult. A washing machine. A dishwasher. A balcony, with ivy framing it's beautiful stone carvings, a (non-tacky) swing chair nestled between two wide pots of lavander, in which I would sit on summer evenings, my Siamese kitten purring in my lap as I gently smoked a cigarette and took in the balmy summer breeze.

Unfortunately, that doesn't look very likely in the forseeable future, so I'm going to have to make do with the sort of transient, peasant treats that companies like 'Yankee Candles' create in order to make all of us plebs feel that little bit more luxurious. Yes, I've been trawling the web, gorging on glossy photos of beautiful candles:

 I just want them. I want my bedroom to smell like a garden sweet pea, and if I have to pay €22.90 and €5 shipping to make that happen, then bring it on.

My mood

On April 7th of this year, I wrote a post because I thought I'd start a blog. I never actually felt like I wanted to continue with it. Here's what I wrote:

This is a place for me to talk purely about my thoughts and moods.


I have made a lot of progress over the past few years, but still I am weighed down by uncontrollable feelings and mood swings. It usually seems to worsen during times of particular stress.

Lately, I have been under a lot of pressure. My family are in another country, which I should be used to, and yet somehow I can't help but feel isolated, like I'm alone dealing with these issues, although I know it is by choice. Currently, I am applying to Masters programmes, which is extremely competitive and requires copious amounts of paperwork, applications, exams, interviews here there and everywhere. My job is coming to an end, and although I am working on getting a Masters, nothing is set in stone yet, and I feel a bit lost at sea.

It's an exciting time, but also a bit nerve-wracking. Yesterday, I lost a pen that I had bought just a few hours earlier. It cost me €2.85. I had been having a good day, but losing this pen made me sink into a foul mood. ''Why do I have such bad luck,'' I said to my flatmate. ''My life is completely pointless, I can't see any good in it.'' This darkness stayed with me for about 2 hours, until I eventually got back into a positive state. I have been seeing a guy I'm really, really into for the past 4 months. These last 2 weeks, I have noticed myself becoming more and more irrational with him. I jump down his throat and misinterpret things he says. I am by turns sullen and enraged if he comes over 10 minutes earlier than planned. I can be harsh and hurt his feelings out of frustration, anger, fear. I would use the word ''irrational'' to define myself when under extreme pressure. It is difficult for people close to me: my mum, The Guy - they can never predict my moods, and neither can I, and I feel guilty and angry at myself for it. I always think ''what is WRONG with you'', and ''next time, I will be nothing but calm and collected'', and yet of course, rarely does that happen.

I decided there was only one thing for it: I need to help myself. The only way I can see that this might be possible, is to slowly try and re-train my outlook on life. Correcting myself when I feel myself slipping into a dark mood. Checking myself when I think something angry. Ignoring completely irrational moods. So far, it seems to be working.

I think I'll use this blog to record my moods, and to talk myself out of some of the worse ones whilst remembering the good uns :)

A few things:

• I've actually been doing a lot better emotionally since I found out I got the Masters. Obviously stress had been weighing on me.
• All of what I said above is true, apart from the feeling shit about The Guy - he is a dickhead, and therefore I think it was completely normal behaviour for me to feel 'sullen', 'enraged', and 'hurt'. In fact we're no longer together. It's sometimes difficult when you've got emotion-streaming issues (sounds way better than 'mental health', no?) to accept that maybe you're justified in feeling a certain way. The tendency is to blame your own perceived irrationality.

Resolutions

I wonder at what point my life will stop being ruled by the academic calendar? When ''next year'' stops meaning September? For the moment, that is how it seems to be.

As all good years start,this one will begin with a few resolutions:

Stop dating fuckwits: the past....6 years, have been spectacular in terms of the amount of absolute total douchebags I have met and started relationships with. I used to blame them. Up until my last break-up, which was 4 days ago, at which point I started blaming myself. I'm not buying into that California Sunny D Smile psychology shit: yeah, sometimes you do need to blame yourself. From this year forward, I am not going to engage in romantic relations with anyone who isn't spot on. Perhaps a summary of all the knobs I went out with is in order, so that I can assess where exactly I'm going wrong.

Stop buying retarded clothes: pretty trivial really, except not when your wardrobe only consists of weird clothes. I buy stuff like orange beaded handkerchief tops, and bizarre dresses, and jumpers and t-shirts that are a colour that goes with nothing. Need to make an effort to buy clothes that go with at least one other item of clothing I already have, and avoid looking like homeless woman/half-teenager half-grandad/mentalist.

Sort out money shit: Must get a better handle on finances. Pretty straightforward, really. Spend less, check statement more.

Smoke less: Some types of smoking are fine (albeit lethal). Other types are also fine, until you reach the stage where they are having the following effects on your (shaky) psyche: light paranoia, apathy, disconnection from reality. Don't worry - I'm not going mad. I'm just realizing it may be better to take a bit of a step away from the old rolling papers.